The Sun Will Still Rise
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". It's hot and humid, there's a storm brewing over London and while the night's events have made Boyd determined to speak his mind it seems Grace isn't quite as keen to hear what he's got to say. Rated T for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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**The Sun Will Still Rise**

by Joodiff

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There's a storm coming, Boyd is damn sure of it. It's still warm despite the late hour and when he steps out onto the long-neglected patio at the rear of the house the night air is heavy and humid. There's not much local background noise and he's so used to the great city's perpetual heartbeat that the distant sound of traffic and the occasional wail of a siren fail to register. Besides, he has a lot on his mind. He has an incipient headache, too; one that he knows isn't just connected to the sultry weather. Somewhere further down the short row of traditional pre-war terraced houses a dog starts to bark and is quickly silenced by irritable shouting from an upstairs window. Glass in hand, Boyd advances a step or two into the small enclosed garden hoping to encounter even the slightest breeze. There isn't one. The night is breathlessly still.

The sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and between his bare shoulder blades is prickly and unpleasant but he doesn't really notice. He does notice that the whiskey in his glass is almost tepid. Disagreeable, but he is something of a purist about such things and the idea of adding ice to the neat spirit is too abhorrent to contemplate. Even if it wasn't, it occurs to him that he doesn't have a clue whether or not he would find ice if he was inclined to hunt through the freezer compartment of the fridge in the kitchen. The thought is an inconsequential one, but it troubles him, makes him even more conscious of the many unwanted questions chasing through his head.

Her distinctive fragrance is all over him. Every movement, no matter how small, makes Boyd aware of it. Not just her perfume – light and floral at this time of year – but the far more alluring natural feminine scent of her. It acts like a powerful stimulant on very primitive areas of his brain, causes every one of the expected physical and emotional responses that are hard-wired into his DNA. It's not exactly unpleasant, but it's distracting, makes it even more difficult for him to process the complicated tangle of thoughts he's half-hoping the whiskey will deaden.

Peter Boyd is not a stupid man. He has many faults and he's aware of most of them, including a lamentable lack of perspicacity when it comes to women and their finer feelings, but he is not a stupid man. Tonight's events might not have always been inevitable and unavoidable, but the subconscious awareness of their potential seems to have been with him for almost as long as he's known her. A dangerous, exciting possibility always hanging in the air between them; imperceptible sometimes, but always present amongst the barbs and the bantering.

Why now?

It's an absurd question. Boyd knows why. He's been a detective for more years than he cares to recall. The holy trinity of means, motive and opportunity are his stock in trade. Tonight might not be the only night when all three have coincided, but tonight –

He can't dwell on it. The whiskey, tepid though it is, has a smooth burn that helps soothe him. He sits down on the low wall that forms an artificial divide between patio and lawn and he looks up at the night sky. Burnt orange, not black. A city sky robbed of any vestige of true darkness.

He doesn't even know if she keeps ice in her fridge. That's the uncomfortable truth. Doesn't know when or where she does her grocery shopping, if she talks in her sleep or whether she's really won the hardest damn battle of her life. Thanks to tonight he _does_ know what her bare skin feels like against his. He knows the taste of her mouth, the animal heat of her body. Knows what it feels like to briefly become a living part of her and what it's like to share with her those transitory moments of mystery and wonder that even the most undemonstrative of men will sometimes sell their souls for.

A terrible mistake.

Though… how can it possibly be a mistake when she means so much to him?

A stupid mistake. An unforgivable lapse of judgement. All of it, from the first unexpected kiss to the moment when he left her asleep in her wide old-fashioned bed and went in search of whiskey and solitude.

The possible ramifications are huge. Too big and too frightening for Boyd to fully comprehend. That line… that damned line. The one that they've never once broken in God knows how many years; the one that shouldn't have been broken tonight. Or on _any_ night. That invisible line is important. It means something. It sets them apart, provides the space they need to co-exist in a highly stressful work environment. It's not an inconvenient obstacle it's a protective barrier – for both of them. One that they might have just smashed beyond any hope of repair.

He feels as if there is an iron band tightening around his chest, a physical thing that's trying its best to suffocate him. The sensation frightens him for a moment, makes him think about the prospective heart-attack his friends and family have been gloomily predicting for years. It's just stress, Boyd tells himself. Too much damned stress at work and now… this.

It shouldn't have happened but it has, and now it must be dealt with. Somehow.

He has no idea how. No idea what he can possibly say or do that won't make the situation worse.

Another mouthful of whiskey. Another slew of thoughts and fears and regrets. He hears quiet movement behind him and closes his eyes for a moment.

"Boyd…?" she says.

He will take the sound of her voice to the grave with him, he's certain of it. In all its distinctive colours and shades. He opens his eyes, regards the tainted urban sky in silence. What can he possibly find to say?

Grace speaks again, closer this time. "What are you doing out here?"

He can't turn back time, he can't run away and he can't ignore her. Not looking round Boyd raises his glass a fraction so she can see it. "Nightcap."

"Ah." A statement that is both meaningless and meaningful. Acknowledgement and punctuation combined.

He almost jumps when she puts a hand on his shoulder. It shouldn't feel so natural to be touched by her. Shouldn't feel so… right. Not when everything's got the potential to go so very wrong. Boyd clears his throat. "Lawn needs mowing."

"Yes."

This… could too easily lead to that. Banal domesticity in off-duty hours. Mowing her damn lawn for her on a Sunday morning because that's just how things tend to evolve between men and women when turning fifty's just a wry memory. Hell, most of the time Boyd doesn't even bother mowing his own lawn. He has so little free time that he resents wasting a single moment of it on such mundane chores. But this… could certainly lead to that. Mowing her lawn, fixing her car. Carrying her bloody shopping for her. Falling into a role he knows he isn't temperamentally suited to and doesn't want. Except… maybe he's realising that he _does_ want it. Yet he knows he can only fail.

He's about to speak, but Grace beats him to it, her tone wry. "Guess what…?"

Boyd can only give the inevitable reply. "What?"

"The sun will still rise tomorrow, whatever you think at the moment."

The words stir distant memories of only reluctantly-attended therapy sessions. She's not the first woman to tell him something very similar. His attention is focused on the present, however. Evidently Grace understands the emotional conflict that drove him from the house. Too well, perhaps. It's a double-edged sword. His throat tightens for a moment and Boyd knows he sounds hoarse as he says, "I'm sorry."

She moves forwards to sit beside him on the low wall. As befits someone who's only very recently left her bed, she's wearing a long lightweight dressing gown that emphasises rather than disguises her slim figure. Probably isn't wearing much – if anything – else beneath it by the way the thin fabric alternately clings and flows with every movement. He notices. Of course he does. Boyd is no coward and that's why he silently takes hold of her hand as she settles. Her fingers squeeze his, affectionate and reassuring. She is quiet and calm as she asks, "For letting it happen, or for wanting to run away afterwards?"

"Either. Both." Boyd turns his head to look at her. Her features are shadowy in the gloom, but she looks much more equable and serene than he feels. Hardly an unusual phenomenon. They are what they are. Still holding her hand he says, "You'd think this sort of thing would be easier at our age, wouldn't you?"

"No," she contradicts, sounding both resigned and amused. "This sort of thing is always… complicated."

He almost manages a smile. "Always?"

"Maybe not always. But certainly where people like us are concerned."

"People like _me_, you mean."

Grace is silent for several long seconds and so Boyd returns to his grim study of the sky. There isn't a single star to be seen anywhere. She sounds reflective as she says, "You don't need to do this. The whole self-recrimination thing. After all, tonight hasn't actually changed anything, has it?"

It's intended as a rhetorical question, he's sure, but he shoots a sideways look at her anyway. "Seriously…?"

She doesn't look as if she's joking. "Seriously. Oh, come on – think about it, Boyd."

He grimaces. "I _am_ thinking about it, Grace. At the moment I can't think about anything else."

Her response is not what he expects. "We're not idealistic teenagers. You know as well as I do that there are times when sex is just sex – nothing more significant than a… pleasant diversion. However unexpected."

"Oh, God," he says with considerable feeling. There are times when he suspects that she's capable of being far more pragmatic about a great many highly sensitive things than he is.

"You can't think in those terms?"

He bristles, sensing a gibe, a subtle challenge. "Of course I bloody can. Just not…"

"…where we're concerned?" Grace finishes for him.

Boyd doesn't know how she does it. Years of working alongside her, and he still doesn't know how she manages to cut straight to the core of something so complicated and then be so calm and methodical about breaking it down into its component parts for analysis. He retrieves his hand, folds his arms defensively across his bare chest. "You're my _friend_, Grace. One of the very best I have left."

"We really don't have to discuss this, you know," she says after a long pause.

He's surprised. Usually she is far too keen to discuss every last little detail of whatever issue has inevitably arisen between them. It's normally his place to suggest that keen forensic examination of every nuance of their behaviour towards each other just isn't necessary. He grunts and suggests, "The sun will still rise?"

"Exactly."

He wants to believe her. It would be so easy. And it would doubtless be the best solution to what could become an impossibly difficult situation. Accept the simple way out she's tacitly offering and write the whole evening off as just one of those things; an unfortunate transgression, one that can be diplomatically forgotten by both of them. It's tempting – very tempting – but…

But he can still smell her on his body; can still picture the look in her eyes as she took his hand and led him wordlessly up the stairs. Can still feel the ghostly imprint of her lips on his throat, the caress of her fingertips on his chest, his stomach…

The dull constricting pain in his chest is back. Stress, no doubt about it. Boyd tries breathing slowly and deeply. It helps a little. Aware of her deliberate silence, he says, "Tell me what to do now, Grace."

She chuckles, but it isn't a happy sound. "I really don't think that would be a good idea."

"I mean it," he says, realising that he does. "_Tell_ me. I need to know what to do. Need to know what you expect from me."

"Boyd," she replies, her tone measured, "despite your bad points you're a decent, principled man who isn't scared to fight tooth and nail for the things he believes in – an extraordinary man in many ways – but no matter how attractive those qualities are, you're far too much hard work for me to think about taking on at my age. Relax."

He lets the words settle, not sure if he is amused, offended or wounded by them. He snorts, says, "Thanks, Grace."

There's a hint of a sigh in her voice. "I'm just trying to save you from yourself."

Boyd frowns. "How so?"

"I know you. You're right on the verge of doing something incredibly noble and stupid. Something that will only end up hurting both of us."

Uncanny, the way she can read him. Uncanny and unsettling. "Such as…?"

"Boyd," she cautions.

"When you were ill – " he starts.

"Yes," she interrupts, "something _just_ like that."

There's so much he needs to say, so much he doesn't know if he _can_ say. "Grace – "

Her voice is firm. "Don't."

There are still no stars visible in the dull orange sky. Boyd thinks he hears a faint rumble of thunder in the far distance. Could be his imagination, though the air is still heavy and humid. Oppressive. He looks down. The straggly unkempt grass under his feet is colourless in the semi-darkness of the city night. Not knowing how he wants her to reply, he asks, "Would it really be so bad?"

It seems Grace follows his thoughts perfectly because she says, "You and me? No. Not so bad. Until everything else started to get in the way."

"People have affairs at work all the time," Boyd points out, half without thinking. Even after everything that's happened tonight he isn't sure he wants to touch on such a delicate subject, one that's always been strictly taboo between them.

Her reply is neutral. "They do."

"Not all of them end badly, surely?"

"Have you ever heard of one that didn't?"

"No," he is forced to admit, "but that doesn't mean – "

"Boyd," Grace says, "what you're feeling is perfectly natural. Perfectly understandable. But it doesn't make it real."

She's so damned perceptive. Too perceptive. But not necessarily right. He forgets that sometimes. That ultimately she is every bit as fallible as he is. He finishes the very last of the whiskey and sets the glass down next to him on the low wall. On impulse, he questions, "Why tonight?"

"What?"

"Why did it happen tonight? We've had the means, motive and opportunity before."

"This isn't a criminal investigation, Boyd," she chides.

He shoots her a look. "Don't evade the question."

"I'm not." Grace sighs audibly. "Oh, I don't know. Circumstance? Right time, right place?"

"Not the first time, Grace."

Another heavy sigh. "No, I suppose not."

Boyd leans forward to pluck a blade of the unmown grass. Displacement activity. He coils it round his fingers, absently testing its tensile strength. It snaps far too easily and he impatiently discards it. "You're wrong, you know. Things _have_ changed. Between us. And I don't mean because of tonight."

She's quick to counter with, "Boyd, I was ill. Potentially _very_ ill. It scared you – scared both of us. What you're feeling – "

"Don't patronise me," he warns, "this is not the time to be trying to give me the benefit of your professional opinion."

He expects her to bite back at him. She doesn't. She is silent and for a moment the entire city seems to emulate her. No noise at all. It doesn't last. The sound of a car accelerating somewhere close ends the odd vacuum. Grace puts a gentle hand on his shoulder again. Her voice is calm. "Why spoil a good thing, Boyd? We've been through a lot together, you and I, and somehow we're still friends. Why risk ruining that by doing something foolish?"

He snorts in derision. "The time for _that_ insightful piece of wisdom was about two hours ago, Grace."

"It's still applicable."

Petulant, Boyd shrugs her hand off. He can't cope with the sensation of her fingertips brushing against his bare skin. Too intense, too significant. Too redolent of recent memories. "So what you're saying is that tonight meant nothing to you?"

"Only _you_ could immediately jump to that conclusion. All I'm trying to say is – "

"I _know_ what you're trying to say; I'm not as stupid as you think I am." Faster than he intends, Boyd stands up. "Oh, this is bloody pointless. Jesus, what a God-awful fucked-up mess."

Grace doesn't move, but there's an irritable edge to her voice as she accuses, "For heaven's sake, you're blowing things completely out of proportion – but, then, everything always has to be a big melodrama with you, doesn't it? Nothing can _ever_ be just one of those things that happen to normal people every single day. It always has to be a huge crisis."

The words sting – but only because Boyd recognises an element of truth in them. They make him obstinate, though; make him hold his ground on her lawn instead of striding away into the house. He glares down at her. "At least _I_ don't turn everything into an academic exercise – something that has to be analysed within an inch of its damned life."

"Do you ever wonder," she inquires, the harsh edge still in her voice, "what it would be like if we ever sat down and had an ordinary adult conversation? One that didn't end up in accusations and insults?"

"Oh, for..." Boyd lapses into silence and then shakes his head, weariness damping down his temper. "Shall I tell you something? I'm sick and bloody tired of it. We're either walking on eggshells around each other or we're at each other's throats and it's been that way for _years_. I meant what I said – you're my friend. Friends shouldn't be like this with each other."

"Plenty are."

He despairs sometimes. "Grace."

She stands up. It's almost casual, the way she announces, "See? I'm right – sex has made no difference at all to the way we interact."

Suspicious, Boyd narrows his eyes at her. He has a sudden feeling that he has been very carefully and expertly manoeuvred into proving a point. "Was that an object lesson?"

Her expression is enigmatic. "If you like."

Maybe that's part of the underlying attraction, the way she can so often manipulate a difficult situation to her advantage. It's a distinctly Machiavellian quality, one that Boyd possesses himself, and he has always admired it in her – even if it all-too frequently infuriates him beyond all reason. He grumbles, "You're too damn smart for your own good, Doctor. Or for mine."

Grace folds her arms. "I'm just trying to get it through your thick skull that the world's really not going to come to an end just because we accidentally ended up in bed together tonight."

"'_Accidentally'_? Great phraseology. Very… diplomatic."

"I thought you'd approve."

He's about to retort when a dramatic flash of lightning briefly illuminates the sky. The corresponding rumble of thunder takes several moments to reach them, indicating the storm is still a good distance away. Beside him, Grace promptly says, "It's not a metaphor, Boyd."

"The oncoming storm? You're quite sure about that, are you?"

She moves in front of him, near but not touching. She looks up at him with no trace of fear. "Quite sure, yes."

Boyd is tempted to put his arms around her, to pull her against him and kiss her, regardless of where doing so could – _would_ – lead. It's only a continuing sense of uneasiness that stops him. They are so close and yet so distant. So much a part of each other's lives and yet somehow still strangers in very many ways. Holding her gaze, he abruptly asks, "Do you keep ice in your fridge?"

Her answering frown is tinged with bemusement and her voice is puzzled. "Ice…? No, not as a rule, why?"

"Doesn't matter." He hesitates and then refutes himself by explaining, "There's so much we don't know about each other, Grace, even after all these years. All the silly little things; the things that get overlooked because they're completely irrelevant at work."

"So? That's hardly unusual, is it?"

"Not for colleagues, no. But for friends…?"

Grace tilts her head on one side, expression solemn as she regards him. "Tonight's really got to you, hasn't it?"

He doesn't want to admit it, but honesty makes him nod. "Yeah. A little."

"A _lot_," she contradicts, but in a gentle tone that suggests she empathises. "Boyd, I wouldn't hurt you for the world – you do know that, don't you?"

The assertion is made so calmly and with such sincerity that instead of uncomfortably mocking her in immediate defence, Boyd is forced to nod. He should say something – anything – but he has no idea of the words to use. It's not the sort of thing he's used to hearing. Has _ever_ heard, in fact. He's not known for his vulnerability, emotional or otherwise, and that's just how he likes it. Better to have a sterling reputation as a selfish, hard-hearted bastard than to –

Grace continues, "If you're worried that I'm going to imagine that tonight puts you under some kind of obligation…"

"I'm not," Boyd cuts in. He takes both her hands in his. "What do we do now, Grace?"

She half-shrugs as if she has no more insight into the situation than he does. But that can't be true. Before he can speak again she suggests, "Go on, then. Tell me something that I don't know about you."

He blinks and frowns, his mind suddenly a blank. "Such as?"

"Anything." This time Grace does shrug. "What about… how did your parents meet?"

Not the sort of question Boyd was expecting. Not nearly incisive or personal enough. He wonders if it's a deliberate strategy. "A dance in the East End. It was towards the end of the war. Dad was on forty-eight hours' leave in London – Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. Pretty sure it was the kilt that first caught my mother's eye."

Grace laughs, a quiet, gentle sound. "I can imagine. Your father was Scottish?"

He nods, trying to ignore old and painful memories. Whiskey fumes and quick fists. Broken china and angry voices on a Saturday night. Bitter recriminations and pitiless eyes even darker than his own. A frightened little boy shivering alone in the back yard long after midnight. It's an effort to slam the door to the past closed again. "Yeah, from Inveraray. Hence the surname."

"I didn't realise."

"So?" Boyd prompts before she can ask any further questions. "Are you going to return the favour?"

"I told you – no, I don't usually bother with ice."

"Grace."

She is silent for a long time, apparently lost in thought. Then, just as he's about to speak, she sighs. "When I was at university there was a man, a fellow undergraduate. I'd never really noticed anyone the way I noticed him. He was bright and funny and I thought he was… very special. I was naïve enough to think he felt exactly the same way about me. Right up until the moment when we were alone together in his room and I realised he simply wasn't going to take no for an answer." Grace looks straight at him, both fearless and defiant. "Oh, he didn't hurt me, but afterwards I blamed myself for not doing more to try and stop him. I didn't tell a soul what had happened; I was convinced it was all my own fault, you see. That's the way things were back then – a woman who chose to go up to a man's room with him obviously knew exactly what to expect."

It's such a personal and obviously painful story that Boyd isn't sure how to respond. Shaken, he gazes down at her, well-aware that he is still holding both her hands. Despite the tenacious warmth of the night, her skin feels cool. Clammy, even. He wants to tell her how sorry he is, but the words won't form. It might be a good thing. Righteous anger is gnawing inside him and he's a past master at saying the wrong thing – or at saying the right thing in entirely the wrong way.

Grace saves him with a quiet, "We all have our demons, Boyd."

Whiskey. Fists. Shouting. Oh, yes, there are certainly demons stalking through the mazes of the past…

Another flash of lightning, brilliantly white, tears the sullen sky above them. This time the thunder doesn't take as long to follow. The storm is coming, potent and inexorable. He tightens his grip on her hands a fraction. He has to tell her, has to lay the truth bare. "When you were ill – "

"Don't," she says again.

"Let me finish," he tells her, but gently. There will never be a better opportunity. Right or wrong, it's time to set the words free, to let them cause whatever mischief and mayhem they will. "I was frightened, Grace. Bloody terrified, if you want the truth. Suddenly you were in real danger and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. It was a battle I couldn't fight, a horror I couldn't protect you from, however much I wanted to."

"I know." Her reply is terse.

"It… wasn't good. Knowing that something so insidious could snatch you away in a heartbeat. I had a lot of nightmares and a lot of sleepless nights in those first few weeks."

Her face has become a mask, fixed and waxy. "It's over, Boyd – and I really don't want to talk about it."

He has to continue. Can't stop now even though he can feel the frost falling between them. "It took me a while to understand why it got to me so badly. You were my friend, yes, but…" Boyd pauses for a moment, not sure he is going to be able to force himself to admit the truth aloud. Sheer obstinate determination makes him continue, "I looked at you one day when you were standing in the lab talking to Eve. You looked so frail, so bloody tired, and I finally realised… it hurt me so much because I loved you."

Pain momentarily disturbs the pale mask. "Boyd – "

He forges on, "Oh, I know – you're going to tell me that I'm just having some kind of complicated-sounding psychological reaction to having to watch someone close to me go through hell, aren't you? But it's not just that, Grace. It's really not, I swear."

She looks as if she's going to argue and Boyd isn't encouraged by the way she roughly pulls her hands free and takes a decisive step away from him, but instead of the stinging censure he expects she says, "You're all over the place tonight. You're saying things you're going to hate yourself – and _me_ – for in the morning."

Boyd shakes his head. "Believe me, at the moment I don't _dare_ think about how I'm going to feel in the morning."

The wry admission seems to placate her a little. "Go home, Boyd. Before one of us says something that can't be attributed to the heat of the moment and forgotten."

He is not so easily dissuaded. "I struggled with it. It's not easy, coming to terms with the fact that you love someone you know damn well you shouldn't."

"Boyd," Grace warns in a tight voice, "don't do this. It's not fair – on either of us."

The ability to mitigate the bullish side of his nature is not one of Boyd's talents. Never has been. He keeps pushing. "Why did you kiss me, Grace? When we were sitting on the sofa, why did you kiss me?"

The low light level makes it impossible to tell if a flush has risen in her cheeks as she retorts, "It wasn't planned, it just… happened."

He goes for the jugular. "Based on all the years I've known you, I don't believe that for a moment. You're not the sort of woman who impulsively kisses men who don't mean anything to her."

Her voice is hard. "I never said you didn't mean anything to me."

"Ah." He knows it sounds complacent, but Boyd doesn't care. He's forced some kind of grudging admission from her, and that's enough to cause a minor glow of triumph.

"This is a completely ridiculous conversation," Grace grinds out, taking another step back, "and a totally pointless one."

"I got there, though," he says, ignoring her and returning to his earlier monologue. "It took me a lot of whiskey and a lot of soul-searching, but I got there in the end. I realised that it's not necessarily a bad thing, to love someone who's been a very good friend through thick and thin – whether I deserved it or not."

"I'm not a faithful old Labrador, for God's sake."

He grins. "Admittedly not the first image that comes into my head when I think of you, Grace."

Another cold streak of lightning, another rumble of thunder, closer still. Terse now she says, "We should go inside."

"Why?" Boyd asks. "Are you afraid to face the storm?"

"I told you, it's not a damn metaphor."

"I think it just might be."

Her irritation is quite clear. "Boyd, you may think you're having some kind of an epiphany, but you're not. You're reacting entirely predictably to all sorts of emotional stressors and psychological factors, unexpectedly having sex with me being just one of them."

It piques him, the tone of her voice, the tiny hint of contempt he's sure he can detect. Makes him brutal in defence. Staring straight at her, he says, "I was screwing Frankie, did you know that? Almost from the time Jacobs attacked her in the lab right up until just after Mel died. You always wondered why we never kept in touch, well, that's why. Too many bad feelings, too much baggage."

Grace's expression suggests the information is unwelcome but not altogether a surprise. Her reply is just as icy as it is predictable. "Thank you _so_ much for sharing that fascinating piece of information with me, Boyd, but I'm not sure why you imagine it's at all relevant."

The chink in her armour successfully exposed, he aims straight for it. "You said it yourself: there are times when sex is just sex, nothing more significant than a pleasant diversion."

"In which case, poor bloody Frankie. You _knew_ how fond of you she was – everyone did – and you still messed her around just because you could? Well done. You're a real charmer when you want to be, aren't you?"

He ignores the rebuke. It might be warranted, but it's not pertinent. "But _tonight_ wasn't one of those times, Grace. Not for me – and I'm pretty damn sure not for you, either."

A hard and brittle silence falls between them, making the menacing sound of advancing thunder even more ominous. There's not much more than five feet between them, but the space feels like an impassable chasm. Say what you mean, mean what you say – something they've never quite been able to do with each other. Grace is glaring at him, any subtlety lost in the night's gloom. The pain in Boyd's chest has started again, dull and frightening, but all he can think of is the sensation of her hands fluttering like warm butterflies across his bare skin.

"Any minute now," Grace says, "the heavens are going to open, and I have no intention of standing out here getting soaked while you go round and round in endless circles trying to say... whatever it is you're trying to say."

He accepts the implicit challenge. "When you were ill I realised I loved you. Now I think I'm realising that I'm _in_ love with you."

"I see." Unemotional. Almost disinterested.

Disappointed by the reaction, he prods, "That's it? That's all you've got to say – 'I see'?"

"What do you _expect_ me to say? By some fluke we stupidly end up in bed together and the next thing I know you're telling me… all this."

"I'm trying to be honest with you."

"No." Grace shakes her head. Her voice is thick with anger. "No, you're not. What you're trying to do is off-load all the thoughts and feeling you don't know how to handle onto me. You're trying to push me into some kind of negative reaction that will make it easy for you to run away with your pride intact."

He frowns. "How do you figure that?"

"Boyd, if you love someone, if you _really_ love them, it only takes three words to explain how you feel."

"Not if things are complicated."

She glances up at the sky. "I'm going inside. Stay out here and do battle with the storm if you really want to, but it won't achieve anything."

"I love you." A stubborn declaration that falls between them like an artillery shell.

Grace almost sneers. "You think you do. Tonight. Tomorrow… is another day."

He can't help snorting. "Oh, come _on_, Grace. I'm not Rhett Butler and you're not Scarlett bloody O'Hara. And I'll tell you something else for nothing – neither of us is getting any younger."

It's the wrong thing to say. Her response is haughty. "Meaning?"

"How many more chances do you think we're going to get?"

"At what?"

His temper is starting to fray. It's an effort not to raise his voice. "For God's sake, will you stop being so damned obtuse for five minutes? You and me – we could actually have something together if we wanted to. Why are you so bloody defensive?"

The accusatory question doesn't help the situation. Grace's answer is instant and it is sharp. "Why are _you_ so self-absorbed? You haven't once asked me how _I_ feel, what _I_ might or might not want. Every word you've said has all been about you – _your_ feelings, _your_ fears, _your_ assumptions."

She's right, Boyd recognises. It's not a pleasant truth to face, but she's right. The temperature is dropping, he realises – and not just between them. The air temperature is dropping and a light breeze has started to stir the leaves on the big old trees on the top of the railway embankment beyond the garden's rear fence. The storm's almost on them. He looks at Grace and she scowls back. Unlike some of their younger colleagues she's never been in the least bit intimidated by him, part of the reason they have so often come into direct conflict with each other. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. With considerable asperity, he says, "Then _tell_ me. I'm not a bloody mind-reader and you're being even more infuriatingly inscrutable than usual."

Her reply is cool and it sounds calculated. "I'm just not convinced that tonight was as significant as you seem to think."

It cuts deeper than Boyd expects, the calm pronouncement. Cuts far deeper and hurts far more and he immediately hates himself for letting his defences down, for giving her the perfect opportunity to wound him. Pride makes him bridle, anger surging hotly through his veins, but it's obstinacy that holds him fast and makes him jeer, "And that's the best you can do, is it?"

Grace takes a single taut step towards him just as he feels the very first raindrop land on his bare shoulders. "I'm not that naïve young undergraduate anymore, Boyd. I don't dance to any man's tune, let alone _yours_."

"Tell me something I don't know."

Another deliberate step, another half-dozen chilly raindrops. "We're not at work and you don't have some God-given right to walk into my house and start making decisions for me."

The intensity of her growing rage is startling, even for Boyd. But he continues to hold his ground. "And you really think that's what I'm trying to do, do you? I didn't start this – _you_ did. Or have you conveniently forgotten who dragged who upstairs?"

"Cheap shot, Boyd."

"Maybe, but I think I've earned it." He studies her as she takes yet another step towards him. She doesn't look happy. Far from it. "And I'm warning you, don't even _think_ about trying to slap me."

"Or…?" Grace challenges. "Oh, let me guess – you'll hit me straight back?"

Black eyes and raised voices. Glass breaking on the kitchen floor. Fights and fists and excuses. He swallows hard, forces an unnatural calm. "I've never hit a woman in my life and I'm not about to start now. Go on – keep pushing, Grace."

There's less than a foot between them now, and the rain is beginning to fall in earnest. When the cold bright lightning flares the deafening roar of thunder isn't far behind. The storm's almost directly overhead, an awesome mirror of the angry scene being played out in the small untidy North London garden. Boyd raises his chin a fraction, inviting a riposte, however vicious.

"Why couldn't you do what you always do and just run away?" she demands, and for the first time there's a crack in her voice that has nothing to do with anger. It sounds more like despair than rage. "Why did you have to start saying all that… stuff?"

Comprehension hits Boyd like a fist to the gut. "Christ, Grace… You're scared, aren't you? That's what all this is about. You're scared… No, not scared – you're fucking _terrified_."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Grace snaps back at him. "Get out, Boyd. Get off my property."

"Like hell I will. For God's sake… what's frightening you?"

"_Nothing_. Just go, will you?"

"Oh, please don't tell me it's _me_ you're scared of…? Grace…?" The rain is starting to cause tiny rivulets to run down his back and his chest, and it's also beginning to stick Grace's light dressing gown to her body, highlighting every last female curve and swell of flesh. He swears he can see the outline of her nipples, peaked by the sudden chill. Under different circumstances Boyd knows he'd find the sight unbearably erotic. Not now, not with the misery so clear and stark on her face. Right or wrong, he lets impulse drive him, reaches out and pulls her against him, ignoring her stiff-limbed resistance. Every protective instinct he has is screaming at him and he refuses to release her, only slackening his tight grip a little when she ceases to struggle. He drops his head and against her ear he murmurs, "I'm sorry. I thought… Oh, it doesn't matter what I thought. I'm _sorry_, okay?"

Her voice isn't much more than a whisper. "I can't explain."

He doesn't release her. "You don't have to. It's all right. Everything's all right."

"It's not," she contradicts, her face pressed against his chest. "It's so easy for you… You're like a hurricane, Boyd. Don Quixote, constantly tilting at windmills, constantly looking for some_one_ or some_thing_ to fight. With you it's always all or nothing – full-on or full-stop. I just can't be like that."

Perplexed, he says, "I'm not asking you to be."

"But you _are_. All or nothing, now or never. No time to stop and think, just make an instant choice. Leap into the unknown or walk away. It's not _fair_."

"But I haven't – "

Grace moves faster than Boyd would ever have believed possible, a sharp half-turn in his arms to break one arm free and he almost flinches as that arm then rises, absolutely sure she's going to strike him. She doesn't. She grabs a handful of his wet hair and pulls his head down, her strength raw and unexpected as she forces him into a rough kiss that causes the kind of jolt up and down his spine that not even the lightning ripping through the sky above them could hope to match. Savage, strong. A declaration of war; of love, of lust. He isn't aware of the way they are grappling as the relentless rain pours down on them both. His heart is thudding wildly in his chest and he isn't really aware of that, either. He is only aware of Grace and the ferocity with which she's kissing him.

She breaks the kiss, tries to pull away, but Boyd doesn't let go. "I love you, Grace. Do you understand? You can scream and shout at me, you can tell me to go – hell, you can completely ignore me for the rest of your damned life if you want to, but you can't stop me from saying it."

"And if I don't feel the same way about you…?"

The thought claws at all the undefended places inside him. It hurts. But he shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time I've fallen for someone who's not interested… if it was true."

They stare at each other, neither willing to give ground. The storm is at full force, the thunder so loud and fierce that the lightning must be striking the steeple of the old church several streets away, and though they are not aware of it, they're both shivering as the rain continues to hammer down on them. Boyd loosens his grip, frees one hand to caress her cheek before lowering his head to kiss her as gently as he knows how, but as she starts to respond he steps back, breaking all physical contact between them.

At her puzzled look he says, "I'm not going to get down on my knees and beg, Grace."

"Boyd – "

"Ball's in your court," he tells her simply. "There are better men than me in the world. Kinder, smarter more dependable men who will look after you and treat you the way you deserve, but you know what? I don't think that's what you want, is it?"

"I don't _know_ what I want."

He nearly smiles. "Well, at least that's honest."

"I didn't plan any of this."

"I know."

"Just give me time to think, Boyd. _Please_. Let's go inside and get warm, then we can talk properly."

He's far too aware of the pain as he quotes her earlier words, "_'If you love someone, if you really love them, it only takes three words to explain how you feel'_. Very apposite, Grace."

Grace says nothing. Boyd watches her for a few seconds more, waiting for a reaction, and then he turns away and walks towards the still-open back door. He's not sure how he feels, isn't altogether sure he isn't in the middle of a restless dream that will dissipate into nothing the moment he opens his eyes. Only the cold rain provides any anchor to reality. He can't quite believe that he's gambled and lost quite so spectacularly. Everything – absolutely _everything_ – that matters thrown away simply because he impulsively decided to be completely honest with her. He should have lied. Should never have trusted her to –

"Boyd," her voice calls softly, her uncertainty quite clear.

He stops despite himself, but he doesn't look round. "What?"

"I've thought about it."

Boyd closes his eyes. "And…?"

He doesn't hear her reply over the ear-splitting sound of thunder. But he turns to face her anyway.

_- the end -_


End file.
